


The Knight's Gem

by Jaygrl22



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action/Adventure, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Family, Historical Hetalia, Magic, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Original Character-centric, Slow Build, Slow To Update, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-18 17:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5936532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaygrl22/pseuds/Jaygrl22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The job is a godsend, so Kristine can ignore the odd coincidences surrounding it. After all, if she works hard and makes the right connections, she might just make a difference in the world someday. But when strangers greet her by name, men chase her through New York City streets, and her friends and family's lives are threatened, she can't ignore the coincidences anymore. </p><p>Who is this woman everyone confuses her for? How did she disappear? Why is everyone so convinced they're the same person? And what in the hell did this chick do to piss off an ancient cult so badly!?</p><p>Can Kristine help protect a timeless treasure? Or will those hunting it succeed and deliver The Greatest Mercy upon humanity: death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death Upon Me

**Author's Note:**

> Not my first fanfic, but it's the first one I'm posting on AO3. I hope you enjoy it. :)

“Could… Could I please have a moment to pray?”

There’s a pause. The icy metal pressing against my head is lifted. Cautiously, I raise my eyes to the man with the gun.

“Pray,” he commands.

I tangle my trembling fingers together and dip my head, stealing a glance as I do. Everything is blurry without my glasses, but all of them are armed and fully clad in hunting gear. Their pearl white masks are the only things keeping them from merging into the forest completely. Without even seeing it, I know that same stupid gold and purple symbol is painted on each and every one.

“Our Father who art in Heaven… Hallowed be Thy name…”

My mind scrambles trying to remember the letter from earlier. It said if I lowered my hands and did… _something_ , I’d be saved. I thought it was a joke. Some kind of prank from one of those dorks of mine. Jesus, fuck, why is this happening to me?

A snapping twig catches my attention—and the attention of my captors. I quickly continue, hoping the sound won’t spook the man into killing me faster. Because he _is_ going to kill me. My chest aches at the thought, but there isn't any way to survive this. I don't have their stupid jewel and I’m not who they think I am. There’s nothing I can do to convince them otherwise. My life will be over in a matter of seconds and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Th-Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done…”

I sniff and wipe the tears away with my knuckles. It’s better not to focus on the blood thundering in my ears or how hard I’m shaking. I try to recall more of the strange letter but it’s all a blur. The faces of my friends and family, my brother and baby sister, are all I can see. 

“On Earth as it… as it is…” I take a deep breath and straighten my spine. “In Heaven.”

I shriek and drop further to the ground as a sudden, sharp explosion echoes through the forest. The man beside me drops his gun and staggers back, gagging and gurgling as he does. He falls. The blood seeping from his neck stains the earth beneath us as he stares into my eyes and dies. 

Chaos erupts. The Hesediens scream out in fear and rage. They run as bullets fly past in every direction. As they fall around me, I lie cowering against the ground. This can't be happening. I shouldn't be here. A bullet nicks my ear and, oh, God, I just know I'm going to die here.

_Is this what war feels like?_

My eyes latch onto the man’s gun. I don't think. I just grab it, get up, and shoot and run blindly.

I don't get far.

Something fast and tiny pierces my chest and shatters. My body plummets to the ground. I gasp for air. My hands franticly grip at my neck and chest. Trying to find the source, trying to breathe again. There's not hole in my chest, but a crater. The blood. The blood, it's everywhere.

Am I dying?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, comments, and critiques are always welcome! :)
> 
> (On an unrelated note, I always hate my first chapter. They never feel quite right!)


	2. The New (Sorta) Librarian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: I update veeeeerrrryyy slowly. Just so you know. I'm working on fixing that about myself but, ya know...

~Months Prier~ 

            “I’m really sorry about this,” I mumble again, trying to tuck more hair behind my ears. My watch says it’s almost 9:30. I’ve literally been walking around for nearly half an hour.

            “It’s fine. Honest!” The man with the hooked nose smiles brightly as he leads me down a series of halls. His accent, which I can’t quite place, is thick and wraps around his vowels, holding them back. “It happens to half of all people here on their first day.”

            “Did you get lost, too?”

            “Me? No. But I was with a group of people. A summer internship for Europe’s students. We had an guide waiting for us with a sign who showed us around.”

            “Oh.” A part of me feels guilty. His warm brown skin and square jaw had me picturing somewhere in the Middle-East, but the accent suddenly seems more clear. One I should have recognized immediately.

            “So... are you French?” I ask as we walk down a vaguely familiar corridor.

            He smiles. “I am, yes.”

            “Oooh, that’s so cool! I thought I recognized your accent,” I blabber, “but I wasn’t sure. Do you live in France or here in New York, Mr… erm…?”

            “Oh, of course.” The man turns to face me. “In my rush to collect you, I forgot to introduce myself. My name’s Izem Filali,” he says politely. “I also work in the library and will be your supervisor.”

            “Good to know. Now if I just knew where the library was, we’d be all set.”

            Izem chuckles and glances openly at the glass doors we’re approaching. Through them is a long wooden desk and further down are rows and rows of books. My face burns upon realizing the library is just a small hop, skip, and jump from the main entryway. I struggle to say something as Izem holds one of the doors open for me.

            “Well, at least you are now acquainted with the Secretariat Building, yes?”

            “Erm, ah… ahaha… Right.”

            A man in his mid-twenties, with meticulously styled hair and a soul patch, sits in one of three seats at the reference desk. He stares sternly at the screen before him, resting his angular face in his palm.

            “ _Robert_ ,” Izem sighs in exasperation, catching the man’s attention, “I’ve told you not to stare so close at the computer screen.”

            “Sorry, Izzy,” the blonde mumbles halfheartedly before standing. He takes a moment to stretch and I balk at his height. He is easily the tallest person I’ve ever seen, and when he smiles down at me I can’t help but feel like a child. “You found our newest edition, I see,” he says to Izem in French. “Good job.”

            “Yes, hello, I’m Kristine Fischer,” I announce in English, jutting my hand out. “Very nice to meet you.”

            The man easily leans over the wooden desk, which has a width greater than the length of my arm, and shakes my hand. “Robbie Gagne. Same.” He looks at Izem again. “ _Better get her up to Wally and Ronny before they call a search party._ ”

            Izem nods and, in a French dialect I’ve never heard before, tells Robbie to keep an eye out for someone named Yejin as we head further in.

            The library’s ceiling is covered with rows of round, modern-esque lights. Only a small sporadic handful are actually lit as the floor to ceiling windows allow more than enough light in to fill the gigantic room. We pass the usual décor of bookcases, tables and chairs, a few sofas, and an astonishing number of file cabinets. Izem explains that the first floor is mainly filled with reference material and copies of significant documents from the most recent decades.

            “Mr. Wallach’s office is on the fourth floor, as are the rest,” Izem tells me as we enter an elevator. “You have had the chance to speak before, yes?”

            “Yeah, we spoke on the phone once. He sounded nice.”

            “He is, yes.”

            There’s a pause. “So… Robbie speaks French?”

            Izem makes an unimpressed face. “If you call what he speaks French, yes.”

            I laugh nervously, not really understanding his response.

            “I apologize if Robert made you feel unwelcome. He is more comfortable speaking French than English.”

            “Oh, no, it’s fine. I understand.”

            When the elevator doors open they reveal a wide hall filled with mostly open doors. Peeking in, I see the trend of floor to ceiling windows has continued. Judging by the size of the rooms, this floor is much, much smaller than the first.

            The people in these offices work diligently but a few send a quick smile or greeting to Izem, who returns them with ease. He knocks on one of the few closed doors and it takes a moment for us to be invited in.

            “There you are, Izem!” an older, balding man says, rising from his desk with open arms.

            The woman standing next to him adjusts her green, cat eye glasses with a poised smile. They are an odd pair. He’s round and pale with ruddy cheeks and sinking jowls, while she is slim and dark with freckles peeking out from her only-just-noticeable wrinkles. Izem politely nudges me inside.

            “And you must be Kristine,” the man says eagerly moving closer. “Kristine Fischer.” He shakes my hand with great vigor. His big broad grin makes it look like his face is about to split in two. From this closeness it is impossible not to notice the remaining bump of a once broken nose. “Wonderful! Wonderful to meet you in person!”

            “You too, sir,” I say fighting my instincts to take a step back. “You must be Mr. Wallach.”

            “Yes, yes, Lloyd Wallach,” he says shaking my hand again. He chews comfortably on his words. He’s not from New York or America but he’s been around long enough for the accent to melt into the cracks of his own. “Chief Executive Officer here at Dag Hammarskjöld Library. Wonderful to meet you.”

            The slim woman comes forward and guides Mr. Wallach back towards his desk. “Don’t mind him,” she says gently shaking my hand from a more comfortable distance. “Rhonda Kelley. Good to meet you in person, Ms. Fischer.”

            “You as well, Mrs. Kelley.” Mrs. Kelley is the library’s deputy director and the person whom I’ve been working with in the process of getting this job. She almost sounds English, except for a rhythm in her speech that I haven’t yet been able to place.

            Mr. Wallach dismisses Izem and has him close the door before offering me a seat. He asks with great enthusiasm about my hometown of Augusta, my family there, and jokes heartily about my getting lost on the first day. He keeps smiling and chuckling like he's won something.

            Mrs. Kelley asks how my transfer from USM to NYU is going, if I’ve found a place to live, and has enough decency to not smile too wide at Mr. Wallach’s jokes. She also masterfully reels Mr. Wallach in when he gets too giddy.

            They take their time explaining the library’s history, purpose, and layout. The first floor (as Izem said) is filled with reference materials and important/frequently used documents, as well as a collection of newspapers and periodical titles; the second has academic and scholarly studies and journals, along with their remaining records and a computer lab connected to the library’s database; the third floor houses the library’s maps, historical documents, and detailed books focusing on the social, political, economic, and cultural development, practices, and trends around the world.

            “There’s also a basement where more fragile pieces are stored, along with an underground walkway connecting us to the other buildings in the complex. And, as you saw, the fourth floor is where all the business elements are cared for,” Mrs. Kelley concludes. “Do you have any questions?”

            “Not really…”

            “But? I hear a ‘but’ coming on,” Mr. Wallach chuckles.

            “Well, it’s just… I really don’t want either of you to think I’m not grateful for this job— _opportunity_ , I mean, because I absolutely am, but… I know I’ve mentioned this before, but are you sure I’m qualified to—”

            “Plenty! Kristine, we think you’re plenty qualified.”

            “Well, thank you, but I only volunteered at Lithgow Library for—”

            “I assure you, Ms. Fischer, we find you a perfect fit.”

            “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Kelley,” I say pushing up my glasses. “But I’ve never studied library science and I certainly don’t have a degree in library management or—”

            “Oh, Kristine, you’re a treat!” Mr. Wallach guffaws, making me feel very small.

            “You have to remember that this is an international zone, Ms. Fischer,” Mrs. Kelley explains. “While we respect and follow most local and federal laws, the United Nations works with individuals from around the world. Surely you realize that not all countries require or even have the means of providing the certifications that American libraries require of their staff? Would it be fair to judge all our candidates based solely on credentials that many may never have even heard of?”

            My face and neck burn. “No, not really…”

            “We are trying to give as many people a chance as possible,” she continues, “regardless of their origins. Certainly you can understand that, Ms. Fischer.”

            Again, I feel like a child. “I… It just seems weird that you would reach out to me when there are people out there who know what they’re doing a lot better.”

            “Focus on your responsibilities, Ms. Fischer,” she says smiling, “and I’ll focus on mine.” I don’t know what it is, her voice, her eyes, but I'm suddenly itching for the door.

            Mr. Wallach leans back in his chair. “Izem should be waiting for you at the reference desk in front. You can find that, right?” He asks chuckling.

* * *

            “There you are, Miss Kristine,” Izem greets as I approach the desk. Robbie and a young girl glance up from their computers. "Miss Kristine this is Yejin Kim, our most recent intern. Miss Yejin, Kristine Fischer is our new addition.”

            “Hi, nice to meet you,” I say reaching my hand over the desk. She dips her head a little bit, then all but jumps to grab and shake my hand. On the top of her head are round tortoise shell glasses pushing back her dark, breezy hair.

            “Hello. My name is Yejin. Jin is okay, too. I am a exchange student from Korea. Sorry for my English.”

            “Not at all. Your English sounds great to me.”

            She smiles brightly and thanks me. Her plump cheeks and bright attire make her look very young. Unlike me, she seems to have mastered the art of applying makeup to a baby-face without looking like a child playing dress-up.

            “She may even be more comfortable speaking English than you, _my friend_ ,” Izem remarks to Robbie.

            Robbie smirks. “I’m not uncomfortable. French’s easier on the tongue.” He sends Izem a playful wink, who shakes his head good-naturedly.

            I can’t help but chuckle at the exchange. Izem turns a bright red when he hears it and clears his throat. He transitions seamlessly into my schedule for today and the rest of the week.

            In the mornings, I'll shadow Robbie and learn how to use the library's database system. Today, Tuesday, and Thursday afternoons I'll shadow Yejin and learn how the library operates. Wednesday and Friday afternoons, when Yejin doesn't work, I'll be under Izem's direct supervision. 

            "What you do will also depend greatly on what needs to be done that day,” he explains, then hands me a key card and directs my attention to the door beside the reference desk. He unlocks it with his own card and invites me into the back room. 

            Directly to the left is the opening where Robbie and Yejin sit ready to assist visitors. Further in, but still visible from the opening, are several L-shaped desks. Three of them are in obvious use by my coworkers, one is cleared of everything but a laptop and a small stack of books, and the last two are at the far back of the room. Pressed against each other, the two desks have a towering stack of books, boxes, and materials balancing on top of each other like a bad game of Tetris. Beside them is a large office printer and even more filing cabinets.

            “This will be your space,” Izem says gesturing the clear desk. “Please read through those handbooks as soon as you can. You will be tested on them every month.”

            “Wait, seriously?” 

            He nods. “For the first six at least, yes.”

            “With luck,” Robbie adds from over his shoulder. He points at himself. “Nearly two years.”

            “ _Wow_ ,” I say shaking my head, “you guys don't mess around.”

            “We do not, no. I will give you notice before each test, but I would highly suggest constant reading until they become second nature. The first test will be the first Wednesday of next month.”

            For the rest of the morning I sit with Robbie and watch how he works the front desk. During the slower moments, he shows me the basics of the database. I try to focus on the tasks at hand, but the idea of continuously studying for this job keeps jabbing it's way into my thoughts. That, and how I’m going to manage schoolwork on top of all this once September rolls back around.

           Registration for New York University’s fall term started back in April—months before I knew the U.N. even _had_ a library, let alone that I’d soon be working at it. Naturally, there weren’t many classes left after my late application. I ended up with only two classes: Sociological Theory and Epidemiology for Global Health. Which wouldn’t be so bad if they weren't both taught by individuals with some of RateMyProfessor's lowest scores. 

           “Kristine!” Someone shouts and I jump.

            A blissful-looking young man in an Italian suit waves at me ecstatically from the entryway. The stranger quickly approaches the desk and smiles at me like we've known each other for years.

            “Ciao, Kristine! I haven't seen you in a while, how are you?” His accent reminds me of Gran Marisa, a family friend from Italy; full, warm, and with the iconic rhythm that insists on pronouncing every syllable with equal force.

            “Um… Hi. I’m good, how’re you?” I ask, just to be polite.

           The guy takes it literally and tells me _exactly_ how is (and how his brother is, and how a couple of his friends are doing) and how happy everyone will be to see me again. Then starts telling me all about when he went to visit Japan recently and all the things he did with someone named "Giappone". I’m not really listening though because I’m too busy trying to figure out who he is.

            Names often escape me, but faces tend to stay with me. His face is cute and boyish, framed by auburn hair with one random curl. He’s undeniably handsome—the kind of person you might see in a fashion magazine—but his features are unfamiliar to me.

            Robbie and I share a quick glance. He raises a brow and quickly gestures to the chatty Italian. I frown helplessly and give a small shrug, hoping not to catch his attention. Unfortunately, I do.

            The young man’s smile lessens and his amber eyes lose some of their cheerful gleam. "What is it, Krissy? Is something wrong?" 

            It feels unbelievably weird to have a stranger use my nickname. Invasive, almost. But it’s not mine, I tell myself. It’s another Christine’s. He just has me mixed up with someone else.

            “No, but… I'm sorry, but I don't know you.”


End file.
